


Gonna Have'ta Be President Now

by TheInevitableSense



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is dead and Thomas is President, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Burr's a piece of shit, Canonical Character Death, It's Alex, James has to deal with it too, John Jay exists, M/M, Thomas has to deal with Alex's death while being President
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 06:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10380543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInevitableSense/pseuds/TheInevitableSense
Summary: Never before has a sitting Vice-President shot someone. But now Thomas has to deal with it.If only it hadn't been Alexander





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Emma/@ham-for-ham for beta-ing! You're amazing!

The day it happens, Thomas is shaken awake by a secret service agent. The hulking man literally grabs Thomas by the shoulders and shakes him hard enough to rattle the bed frame. Thomas’ eyes fly open, mind scrambling to understand what’s happening. The moment Thomas is awake, the agent lets go and holds out Thomas’ robe.

“Mr. President, there’s a situation,” he mutters and Thomas heart stops. His blood turns to ice as he leaps out of bed and pulls on the offered plush bathrobe. Thomas doesn’t even put on his glasses, he just grabs them and moves. There are slippers on his feet in a matter of seconds and then he’s being ushered out of his private rooms. There’s a ring of agents around him as they run down the Residence hallways, a thousand scenarios already flooding through Thomas’ head.

 _ISIS, Russia, there’s been an attack, some natural disaster, an assassination_ , Thomas ticks off every reason he’d be awoken in a rush at some awful hour of the morning. The sun is just peeking through the windows, the summer sunrise coming even before 6 am. Thomas is expecting to be rushed somewhere secure, but the agents don’t push him down into the bunker, don’t pull him to the situation room. Instead, Thomas finds himself pushed into the office of his chief of staff, stumbling and breathing hard.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” He gasps, hands on his knees. He looks around the room, taking in the small gathering of people there. His chief of staff, his press secretary, a speechwriter, some intern and James Madison are all staring silently at a television screen. CNN is on, and that’s about the only thing Thomas can tell with his blurred vision. He slides his glasses on and reads the headline at the bottom.

**A.HAMILTON SHOT, VP BURR ARRESTED**

The first time he reads it, Thomas thinks that his brain must have fucked up the words somehow. It has to read something, _anything_ else. The second time Thomas doesn’t quite fully process what it means. The third time Thomas thinks it has to be a joke.

Then they show camera-phone footage of Hamilton getting pulled into an ambulance on some dreary riverbank.

The entire world is pulled out from under Thomas’ feet, he feels like he’s falling into some dark pit where everything is backwards and nothing is real and-

Thomas realizes he’s leaning halfway onto a desk, staring slack-jawed at the reporter speaking dead into the camera. None of the words he’s saying make any sense. Thomas catches only bits and pieces as he struggles to comprehend what’s happened.

“Former Secretary of Treasury Alexander Hamilton is in critical condition… a gunshot wound… some reports claim Vice-President of The United States Aaron Burr is in custody… arrested at a bar in New Jersey three hours ago…”

“ _Burr?_ ” The intern croaks. “Aaron ‘Talk Less’ Burr shot someone?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to spin this?” the press secretary moans, staring hopelessly at the T.V.

“Why don’t _we_ know anything yet?” The chief of staff fumes, reaching for a phone.

“We always said someone was gonna shoot Hamilton one day,” the speechwriter comments, a poor attempt to lighten the mood.

“Thomas?” James’ voice breaks through Thomas’ swirling panic. “Are you alright?” Thomas looks at his friend, tearing his eyes away from the replay of Hamilton being wheeled into the ambulance.

“Am I alright?” Thomas asks, his voice suddenly hoarse and scratching at a throat that doesn’t want to work. “Am _I_ alright? Hamilton’s been shot and you ask if _I’m_ alright?” A chuckle escapes Thomas’ throat, and the room goes silent.

Thomas looks back at the screen, but Hamilton isn’t on. It’s a picture of Burr, eyes downcast as a police officer leads him out of a bar. Into that single image disappears any doubt Thomas had that Burr actually did it. The man’s head is hung like a dog, his normally proud posture slumped.

Tears prick at the corner of Thomas’ eyes as his chuckle grows into full-on laughter. “Aaron Burr shot Alexander Hamilton,” he says, as if it’s a fact he’s known all his life. He rubs at his face with one hand, wiping away any hint of wetness in his eyes.

“Someone call the hospital,” Thomas says, his voice suddenly steady. “I want to leave the bastard a message for when he wakes-”

“This just in, an update on the condition of former Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton.” The newscast interrupts Thomas, and he falls silent. “We’ve received reports that Mr. Hamilton has been pronounced dead as of twenty minutes ago. He survived surgery, but succumbed to his wounds despite his doctor’s best efforts. Sources claim his ex-wife and kids-”

But Thomas isn’t listening anymore. Somehow he catches himself on the desk before his legs give out. He feels like _he’s_ the one that’s been shot, the hollowness in his gut spreading into an all-encompassing numbness. The others don’t seem to notice his distress, they all seem wrapped up in their own moments of disbelief and shock. Everyone, of course, but James. His eyes are immediately on Thomas, he crosses the room and grabs on to Thomas’ arm.

They make eye-contact, a silent conversation in only facial expressions. James, of course, already knows what to do, and Thomas follows his lead. Somehow, Thomas manages to right himself, standing up tall and proud despite how he wants nothing but to sink through the floor and disappear.

“Someone find out where Burr is,” Thomas commands and every head turns to look at him. “Start writing an address,” he says to the speechwriter. “And get the rest of staff in here as fast as possible. Corral the press core, gather the Cabinet, call the speaker and the pro tempore.” Thomas divers his orders to the small gathering. “We all need to be on the same page here.”

Thomas takes one last look around the room, eyes falling on the tv screen once more. Somehow, CNN is already running through a short summary of Hamilton’s life- his accomplishments- and they’ve got an old military photo of a younger Alexander grinning in uniform.

“I need to go change,” Thomas mutters. “Today’s going to be a long day.”

\-------------

Ironically, though the shooting seems to be the only thing happening today, everyone’s focused on Burr and the arrest than Hamilton’s actual death. Thomas can almost pretend that Burr simply shot someone else. Thomas doesn’t let himself think about Hamilton more than he has to.

Within a half hour of the story breaking, the entire White House is full of bleary-eyed staffers, awoken just a bit earlier than usual but already hitting the ground running. Crisis situations aren’t uncommon when you work for the President, but the Vice-President suddenly being a murderer is certainly unique.

Thomas savors what he knows will be his only moments of quiet for the day- silently changing into a black suit and tie, putting in his contacts, making himself presentable. When he looks in the mirror, he’s almost stunned at how neutral he looks, how casual and normal his own face is. _This is who I have to be today_ , he realizes. _The moor in the chaos._

Even once he’s finished getting ready, Thomas stands in the sanctuary of his room for a minute longer. He breathes in the calm, because once he leaves it’s going to be gone. For a second, he considers calling up Eliza Schuyler, offering private condolences. He eyes the phone on his nightstand, almost reaches for the receiver but decides against it. The circumstances- and his public relationship with Hamilton- make such a phone call a foolish waste of time. _Tonight,_ he promises himself. _I’ll call tonight_.

Thomas leaves the residency with a surprising lack of security. He almost finds it humorous that he’s left to walk back to the Oval Office alone. Then again, the only danger right now is the Vice-President himself, not some outside force.

When Thomas enters his office, it seems like the entire Department of Justice is there. The room is packed wall-to-wall with lawyers, but when Thomas scans the crowd, there’s his advisors, chief of staff, half his Cabinet and- of course- James dispersed through the gathering.

The clamor in the room silences as Thomas strides into the room. “What’s Burr’s current status?” He asks, sliding out his chair and taking a seat. The Attorney General, John Jay, steps forward.

“He’s been charged with first degree murder”- Thomas has to suppress a groan- “plead not guilty and is in the process of posting bail.”

“First degree?” Thomas asks, praying he heard wrong. Jay nods. “Where?”

“New Jersey.”

“The Senate’s tossing around impeachment,” James interjects.

“No shit,” Thomas mumbles.

“What do we do?” Jay asks. “This has literally never happened before.”

Thomas folds his hands in front of his mouth. “What are my options?” He asks, leg bouncing beneath the desk. Jay and James share a glance.

“First thing we need to decide: do we stand with Burr or against him?” Jay asks.

“Hm?” Thomas hums. Jay bites his lip.

“If Burr decides to pursue the ‘not guilty’ plea, do we back him or try to prosecute?”

Thomas sighs, pushing the base of his palms into his forehead. “Pitch both sides to me.”

“Well-” James starts, but Thomas interrupts.

“Legally first, don’t make it political yet.” Thomas looks at Jay, who nods.

“We have the weapon, multiple witnesses, and public records of Burr’s dispute with Hamilton. _Everyone_ knows Hamilton sabotaged Burr’s primary campaign. Hamilton went out to meet him early this morning, it’s undeniable that Burr shot him, and probably planned to do so.”

“In Burr’s defense?”

“Burr’s best chances are either a temporary insanity plea or self-defense.”

Thomas starts. “Self-defense?” Jay sighs.

“Hamilton was armed as well, and ballistics says that Hamilton shot too.”

Thomas stills, looking at Jay wide-eyed. _This could be the way out_. “Hamilton shot at Burr first?”

“Possibly,” Jay says. “One witness claims he fired in the sky as a warning shot, another says he fired into a tree above Burr’s head.”

“Do we have a bullet?” Thomas asks, leaning forward. Jay shakes his head.

“We don’t know which way it went, Burr hasn’t said anything. Either way, Burr shot Hamilton a second later and Hamilton went down.”

Thomas sighs, stands and starts to pace behind his desk. “Talk politics to me James.”

“Sir, we need to figure out legality first,” Jay breaks in. Thomas shakes his head.

“Everything’s political when the Vice-President shoots somebody.” Thomas clasps his hands tightly behind his back. “The politics inform the law, the law informs politics. James, start talking.”

James starts speaking before Jay can protest again. “Well, if the Senate goes for impeachment and we stand by Burr, we look bad. If we go after him and the Senate doesn’t touch him, we look bad. Prosecuting gives us points with Democrats, splits the Republican base. Defending angers Democrats, most independents… everyone but Burr supporters. Of course, if we’re on the wrong side of the law, we piss everybody off.”

“Is there any way we come out of this looking good?” He asks. James nods.

“If we’re on the same side as the court _and_ the Senate. If Burr’s exonerated and left in office and we defended him, we’re clear. If he’s impeached and thrown in jail and we came down on him, we’re even better off. But if anything splits” -James shakes his head- “we’re screwed.”

Thomas grimaces down at the floor. “He just had to go and do this during re-election, didn’t he.”

“He must know we wanna take him off the ticket,” James grumbles.

Thomas barks a laugh. “Well, he certainly went and gave us a reason to do it.” He sighs.

“Does this mean you want to prosecute?” Jay asks. Thomas bites his lip, pacing hard enough to carve a dent into the floor.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits. He looks up at a room of shocked faces. “I want to talk to Burr.”

“Sir,” -James interjects- “think about what that’ll look like.”

“I don’t care, I want to talk to him.” Thomas stops his pacing and plants his hands on his desk. “Get him here, or on the phone, or _something_ I don’t give a shit. In the meantime, I want a press release on my desk in fifteen minutes. Nothing about Burr, just about Hamilton.”

James nods, stepping away from the desk. The entire room is silent, looking at the President. Thomas looks back, eyes sweeping the room. “What are you all still doing here? Our Vice-President’s a murderer; I’m sure there’s something you all can be doing!”

People turn and flee, escaping any oncoming wrath that might spew from Thomas’ mouth if they stick around any longer. The only man that doesn’t move is James, who stays perfectly still as the others rush around him. The moment the door shuts behind the last lawyer, Thomas collapses into his chair, forehead in one hand.

“Thomas,” James says. “How are you holding up?”

Thomas smiles at the floor. “He’s dead James,” he says, voice light. James nods, waiting for Thomas to keep talking. Thomas inhales, hand coming down to cover his mouth. “He’s dead and I have to pretend like I don’t care.”

“You’re allowed to care,” James points out. Thomas gives him a look.

“I can _care,_ sure. I just have to act like I don’t.” Thomas looks at the clock on his desk. “It’s only been two hours, but it feels like a lifetime.” Thomas looks back up at his friend. “What am I supposed to do James?”

James, impassive as ever, shrugs. “Do what we always do: Find a way to keep going.”

\-----------

The press release Thomas is given is nice, some short half-eulogy for Hamilton. They leave out any sense of animosity and highlight the few times they actually compromised, but it feels hollow. Reading the words written _for_ him, Thomas is really struck for the first time with how little there was between him and Hamilton besides the fighting and the bickering.

He feels his heart start to break, feels the professional walls start to shake and crumble as he sits alone in his office with this single sheet of paper in his hands. If this is the record of anything good between them, Thomas wishes it was a thousand miles longer. There’s so much missing here that Thomas wishes could have happened.

The hours pass, Thomas holed up in his office as people come in and out with various questions and news updates. “Sir, Burr’s been released from custody. He’s on his way here.”

 _Great, thanks_.

“Mr. President, the entire press wants to know if you’re making an address.”

_Not yet, sometime today._

“Sir, The New York times wants to know if you’ve called the family yet?”

Thomas pauses, looks up from a briefing on Hamilton’s autopsy and shakes his head. “It’s on my to-do list.” The PR intern nods and rushes out of the room again, and Thomas tries to go back to his reading. The noon-daylight casts his shadow on the pages and across the desk. The dossier is already difficult enough to stomach, but now Thomas’ gaze kept travelling to the phone on his desk. He rereads something about Alexander’s liver damage from drinking a fourth time before he gives up and stares at the phone.

 _I really should call_ , Thomas thinks. _Get it out of the way, tell people I did it._ But he can’t force his hands to reach for the receiver. He’s frozen in his chair, trying to work up the courage to dial. He knows the number, but the idea of someone else besides Hamilton picking up sends chills down his spine.

 _It doesn’t have to be a long phone call, they’re probably all grieving anyway_ , he justifies, finally getting his hands to work and reaching out-

“Sir, the Vice-President’s here.” Thomas’ secretary pokes her head in just as Thomas’ fingers curl around the receiver. He jumps, then lets out a breath.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” he breathes.

“Sorry Mr. President.”

Thomas shakes his head. “You’re fine. Just… just send him in. Don’t interrupt us.” Thomas leans back from the phone, closes the file in his hand and throws it on the pile of papers strewn across his desk. The secretary nods, and shuts the door. Thomas lets the silence wash over him, using the brief moments before the door reopens to collect himself.

When Burr walks in, Thomas hands are folded neatly on the desk. It’s easier to look at the other man than Thomas expected. Perhaps it’s something to do with the way Burr is slumped slightly, hunched over himself. He’s holding himself like most men do, but it’s such a far cry from the stiff, proud way Burr usually carries himself that it’s almost jarring.

Burr stands at the door, almost but not quite slouching against the white wood. The silence roars between them, the only sound being the ticking of the grandfather clock against the wall. Burr drags his gaze up from the floor, and his eyes are empty and devoid of any emotion.

“Security almost didn’t let me in,” he says, his quiet voice almost booming. Thomas takes a breath.

“You do have a felony murder charge now,” Thomas points out. Burr flinches, his shoulders drawing further into himself. Neither one speaks for a moment, and when Thomas breaks the silence, it’s with cold steel in his voice.

“Did you shoot him?” Thomas asks. Burr starts.

“I shouldn’t talk abou-”

“I’ve already decided to invoke executive privilege when it comes to communications between you and I.” Thomas doesn’t break his eye contact. “Did. You. Shoot. Him.”

Burr takes a shuddering breath. “Yes,” he mutters.

“Was it self-defense?”

“No.”

“Did you plan to do it.”

“More or less; yes.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, steadying the churning waters inside him into as calm a lake as possible. Burr waits for Thomas to speak, but there doesn’t seem to be any words left inside Thomas besides:

“I should kill you,” Thomas mutters. Burr’s face doesn’t change, but he nods.

“I’d beg you too,” Burr responds. Thomas gives him a bitter smile.

“We can’t have two murderers in office can we?” He asks. “Though, if you were dead I suppose there would only be one murderer.” Thomas clenches his hands tighter, feeling them start to shake with rage. “But I can’t do that,” Thomas says. “I have to be the President now, I _have_ to stay calm.”

Burr blinks, he looks like he’s going to step closer, but Thomas’ glare pins him in place. The chill air soaks into Thomas’ skin.  “What…” he swallows. “What’s going to happen to me now?”

Thomas shrugs. “I don’t know. Jay wants to help New Jersey put you away. The Senate’s told me they want an impeachment. In a few days’ time I will publicly condemn you. What happens after that, I don’t know. You’re most certainly _not_ running for reelection with me.”

Burr’s face grows even more grim and gaunt, Thomas swears he can see his skin grey. “If I were you,” Thomas says, “I’d get the hell out of my office.”

“Yes Sir,” Burr croaks. He reaches behind him for the door handle, fingers scrabbling on wood.

“Oh, and Burr. If I ever see your face again, it will be too soon,” Thomas adds. Burr nods, grabbing the doorknob and fleeing the room. The door shuts firmly behind the soon to be former Vice-President. Thomas lets out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He unlatches his fingers, pulling his hands apart. Thomas can see how hard they’re shaking, can feel similar reverberations throughout his whole body. Thomas buries his face in his hands and lets out a strangled noise.

 _Damn you Burr,_ he thinks. He wants to scream it, shout it from the roof of the White House until he goes hoarse. _Damn you Burr_.

\-------------

Thomas makes a national address using a speech someone’s written for him. To him, his voice sounds hollow and monotone, the day having taken everything from him. He announces that Burr has been temporarily removed from office, and names George Clinton as his replacement nominee. He doesn’t voice what everyone knows- that Aaron Burr won’t be returning to his post.

George Clinton is a good man, Thomas considers him a good friend. The New York Governor was on the short list for replacing Burr on the election ticket anyway, so to name him early is no issue as far as Thomas is concerned.

He touches briefly on Hamilton, but doesn’t focus on him too much. There’s not a lot of good he can say without being called a hypocrite, so he sticks with what he can say: Hamilton was a genius, an incredible orator and a formidable politician. The words seem shallow compared to how much Thomas would say if he could.

But airing his deepest regrets and secrets on national television this close to reelection is as much political suicide as Burr’s actions were. So he dutifully reads off the teleprompter and adds nothing more. Thomas steps away from the podium a few minutes after he began, and disappears back down a West Wing hallway.

James is waiting there for him. “That was incredible Thomas!” James falls into step beside Thomas as they make their way back to the Oval Office. “Exactly what the country needed to hear.”

Thomas bites his tongue until he and James are safely in private again. “They needed to hear their President speak like a robot and try to not break down on national tv?” Thomas collapses onto one of his couches. James sits next to him, confusion on his face.

“That’s not what they heard at all,” James says. “They saw their President address the problem with strength, resolve and dignity.”

“Strength, resolve and dignity?” Thomas snorts. “I felt like I was falling apart out there. I’m so… there’s nothing left in me James,” he admits.

“You have to find some,” James replies, voice hard enough to give Thomas pause. He looks over at James, whose impassive face stares back. Thomas searches James’ face for any hint of emotion, _any_ sign James is feeling all the things he is.

“How are you not hurting?” Thomas asks. The words tumble out before he can think them through, but it’s a legitimate question. James’ eyes widen, his whole body goes as still as a statue.

“You don’t think I’m hurting?” James asks, voice flat. Thomas hands grab at the plush cushions.

“You haven’t said or done anything,” Thomas counters. “In fact, it’s been business as usual with you.”

“That’s the way it has to be,” James replies. Thomas grits his jaw.

“Out there, maybe.” Thomas points at the closed door. “But here, between you and me?”

“We can’t afford to-”

“Can’t afford to what? Mourn? We’re too important for that?” Thomas’ voice starts to rise.

“We can’t be upset, not with the nation watching us!” James shoots back.

“So you just want to move on, as if nothing happened,” Thomas spits. “Move on and leave _him_ behind?”

“Of course not!”

“ _Then why are you?!_ ”

“ _Because we have to!_ ” For the first time, emotion blossoms across James’ face, and it’s anger. “Because, to the people, we _hated_ Hamilton. Because you’re the _President_ and people can’t think you’re compromised. Because we _have_ to leave him behind.”

Thomas’ jaw drops. “So you are just going to pretend that _nothing’s_ wrong?”

“That’s what we’ve been doing all day, isn’t it?” James asks. “And how _dare_ you think I’m not hurting.” James stands from the couch, fists clenched. “Thomas, we have to be strong or we lose more than just Alex.”

“What if I don’t want any of this?” Thomas motions around the room. “What if none of this matters without _him_.”

James’ jaw clenches. “I’m still here.”

“But you won’t care that’s he’s not.” Thomas can feel the tears threatening to form, but he stamps them down in favor of glaring at James. James takes a shuddering breath.

“I care Thomas. And I am honestly _horrified_ that you think I don’t. But if you want to throw this all away, go ahead. You’d be a fucking fool, but go right ahead.” James spins on one heel and storms out. The door slams shut behind him with a deafening _thud_.

Thomas takes a moment to collect himself on the couch. He has to stop himself from tearing up the cushions and throwing them across the room. He wants to scream, cry, _break things_. But then his secretary comes over the intercom and says that Jay wants to see him. Thomas tells her to let him in, and if Jay notices how out of sorts Thomas is, he doesn’t say anything.

\------------

It ends up being a very late night for Thomas. There’s a short panic when Burr disappears around dinnertime, but they quickly find him on a flight to South Carolina. Thomas doesn’t really care, but if Burr decides to run, his problems will increase ten-fold. James spends the rest of the day away from Thomas. He’s supposedly trying to figure out how _The Hamilton Shooting_ (as it’s being called) is affecting the rest of the world, if at all.

The news has probably spread the globe by now, with a few small areas in Asia just starting to wake up to the headline. Most of the US stayed in the same shocked disbelief as it woke up in for the entire day, but Thomas is sure that once morning comes, so will the politicization of Hamilton’s death. Thomas doesn’t want to face countless politicians starting to voice their opinions and tearing apart the fragile stasis.

Thomas wishes he had more time before he has to stop treating Hamilton’s death like a tragedy and start treating it like a political chip. He retires from the Oval Office fifteen until midnight, giving orders not to disturb him for any reason short of the apocalypse.

Thomas says goodnight to the agents in the Residence and locks himself in his room. The moment he’s alone, he collapses. His head hits his bedroom door and he sinks to his knees. He feels cold, he wishes James were here, he wishes _Alexander_ were here.

At some length, Thomas picks himself off the floor long enough to dig into the wine and liquor cabinet. He grabs the first bottle he sees and pops open the cork. Sparkling champagne floods his mouth as Thomas picks up a few more bottles and throws himself onto the corner of his bed. Thomas stares at himself in the large mirror on the wall as he chugs the first bottle. He drinks faster than he has in years, like he’s a young man again.

For the first time, Thomas lets himself really think about Hamilton. Lets the memories of him, of _them_ , of all three of them come flooding back. Thomas hopes the booze takes the pain away, but instead he starts to cry, fat globs rolling down his cheeks. He buries his face in his hands, sobbing into an open bottle of wine.

There’s a knock at the door, and Thomas jumps. “Is someone else dead?” He calls, chuckling drunkenly to himself.

“No,” James says from the other side of the door. Thomas’ face twists into a frown.

“Go away then,” he calls back. He hears a sigh as he takes another swig only to find he’s finished this bottle too.

“Thomas, open the door.”

“No.” Thomas doesn’t realize how drunk he sounds, or really how drunk he _is_. He just fumbles with the next bottle.

“Thomas, please.”

With the gold shit halfway off another bottle of champagne, Thomas looks blearily at the door. _James sounds so tired_ , he thinks. “Don’t you have a key?” He asks, rising from his seat. Thomas stumbles a bit, the world swirling around him.

“I’d rather you let me in,” James says. Something about his words strikes a chord in Thomas, and he takes a slow step. His foot misses the floor, but his weight is already shifting and Thomas hits the floor _hard_. He hears glass clink and a bottle hit the ground next to him. Thomas groans.

“Let yourself in, would you? I’m… comfy.” He calls, voice muffled by the carpet he’s now face down on. He hears the door click open, then a heavy sigh.

“You’re on the floor,” James observes. Thomas nods.

“And I’m _comfy_.”

“And you’re drunk,” James breathes, taking in the sight of multiple empty bottles.

“I’m not.”

“Thomas, you can’t get drunk, you’re the…” James sighs. “Nevermind.” James shuts the door quietly, and crouches next to Thomas’ prone form. “Alright, up we go.”

Thomas is pulled up onto his knees, held up by James’ hands on his shoulders. He looks at his only remaining boyfriend, sees the bags under his eyes and the exhaustion painted across his face.

“Let’s get you to bed,” James says. Thomas grabs onto James’ arms.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “For what I said.”

James frowns, sliding his arms down so that he can grab hold of Thomas’ hands with his own. “Me too Tommy.”

Thomas bites his lip, feeling the tears start to come back in force. “He’s dead Jemmy. Our Alexander’s dead.”

James sighs again, and pulls Thomas into a hug. “I know. I know.” James rubs little circles on Thomas’ back as the drunk man breaks out into sobs.

\-------------

In the morning, Thomas takes pills for his hangover and lets James groom him into something halfway decent. “Lafayette’s arriving back from France this morning. He wants to see you,” James informs him, trying Thomas’ tie for him.

“Alright,” Thomas replies. James’ hands still.

“Are you alright?” He asks. Thomas conjures up his best smile.

“Of course I am.”

“You don’t have to be-”

Thomas shakes his head. “No, you’re right. I have to be President now, not one of Alexander’s lovers.”

James hesitates, then finishes the knot. He pats Thomas on the chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” Thomas looks himself in the mirror. “Lafayette arrives when?”

“In an hour.”

Thomas nods, glancing at the phone on his nightstand. “Make sure he gets here okay. I have a call to make.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream at me @TheInevitableSense on tumblr


End file.
